


That Would Be Me

by laziestgirlintown



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, assumptions of past drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:26:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laziestgirlintown/pseuds/laziestgirlintown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is lecturing Sherlock and John is desperately trying not to laugh at how badly Holmes Elder's deductions missed the mark this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Would Be Me

John was going to start laughing. He really, really shouldn't. It was entirely inappropriate to the current emotion in the room. And that's probably why he needed to so badly.

That, and it felt as if in the last two weeks he'd laughed more than in his entire life up till then. It must be addictive. As though, once he'd started being ridiculously happy, he couldn't stop. 

What made it even worse – or, to be honest, better – was that it seemed as if Sherlock had it just as bad (or just as good), even though he was hiding it much better. Which meant he was hiding it really, really well, from two of the people who knew him the very best.

John wondered which of them would break first.

Mycroft's lecture was endless. He just kept unknowingly digging himself deeper and deeper, and John had to bite the inside of his mouth so hard he could taste blood. He locked the muscles of his entire body so he wouldn't glance over and look at Greg, who stood solemnly and seriously behind Mycroft's shoulder, occasionally nodding solemnly and seriously. Watching that for more than a second would definitely have sent John over the edge.

He tried to think about the things they were suspecting, and that was sobering for about a minute. Then he remembered how wrong they were, and it didn't help any more.

He bit his tongue painfully and looked at Sherlock. In addition to everything else he admired about his detective, he admired the perfect poise with which he was currently managing to convince both his brother and Lestrade that he was not millimeters away from bursting into either uncontrollable giggles or unstoppable laughter.

It was inspiring. Truly. John clenched his teeth, and, as no one was paying much attention to him in this, he took a deep breath.

Mycroft's lecture continued, Sherlock tuned his violin, Greg scowled, and John was starting to have chest pains from holding his laughter back. He wondered if he should offer more tea to remind them he was still here. Because it really shouldn't be funny, they really were worried, and what they worried about had made John on occasion worried enough to want to murder – but. But the fact that they missed what was, to him, so wonderfully obvious, was honestly so funny he bit his lower lip so hard his teeth met through it.

Given all of that, it was humanly impossible to pass up the absolute gift of a perfect queue when Mycroft said:

“So you truly give me no other recourse than to _order_ you, Sherlock. _Tell me what you've been doing!_ ”

John held up a hand. “That would be me.”

Sherlock's fingers slipped on the violin strings and he turned to look at John, pupils dilating, mouth opening slightly. Mycroft and Greg figuratively fell over as if someone had stepped on their brakes while they were still going 40 mph. Literally, they stumbled while standing still and stared, gaping, at John. He wasn't entirely sure they were remembering to breathe.

“What Sherlock's been doing,” John repeated, “is me. Well, and I've been doing him. As in sex,” he clarified additionally, feeling he was being a very helpful doctor. He'd soon need to physically check whether the two older men were, in fact, breathing, but let's just pile on a little more first. “Also there has been kissing and snogging and mutual assurances of affection and – ah, well, things I can read from your expression there, Mycroft, that you really, really don't want to hear more about. Could you just check if Greg's still-”

“Please be quiet!” Mycroft roared at the same time as Greg, colour returning to his face, exclaimed:

“That's excellent! I'm so happy for you two! I mean – this is newish, right? I haven't already been missing this for years?”

“If anyone could have, it would have been you, Lestrade,” Sherlock drawled, and John went to sit in his lap. Knees first, sharply. Sherlock grunted and winced but looked up at John immediately, watching for whether he'd gone too far.

“Now what do you say to the second person ever to congratulate us?”

Sherlock took a breath, still watching John, then turned to Lestrade.

“Thank you, Ga-” He winced again as John's knee dug in. “Thank you, Greg. We really do appreciate it.” He inclined his head to Lestrade, then pointedly avoided Mycroft while turning back to John, placing a hand on his hip.

“Second person … ?” Lestrade began, then snapped his fingers. “Mrs Hudson, right?”

Sherlock grinned against John's jumper and John acknowledged Greg before turning back to him. “Told you,” he said, then kissed his detective, settling comfortably into his lap.

Mycroft huffed angrily, stood up and walked to the window, staring outside.

“Your brother's upset,” John murmured into Sherlock's mouth.

“So kiss me some more,” Sherlock replied.

John obliged happily, and halfway through – or, if John had had his way, not nearly halfway through – Sherlock started to giggle; the giggle so long held back.

“He's thinking about how he could have missed it,” he laughed against John's lips.

“I can't imagine,” John giggled back. “After all, he was the first to ask to be invited to the wedding.”

There were gasps, and John belatedly realised one of them had come from him.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to get -”

Sherlock silenced him with fingertips against his lips.

“As it stands at this moment,” he said, “he's not invited anyway.”

John's eyes darted over to see Mycroft visibly deflating. He turned around, the lights from Baker Street backlighting him, and watched the two of them huddled in Sherlock's armchair like teenagers in love.

“Sherlock. John. Apologies. And congratulations.”

Sherlock regarded his brother back, and after some moments said,

“I think that's it for tonight, but we might look forward to another display of emotion within circa a week.”

“Great,” John said, “looking forward to it. Thank you, Mycroft. Thank you again, Greg; you should probably both leave now because there'll be lots of snogging and giggling.”

Mycroft, halfway composed again, took a purposeful step towards them that Sherlock laughed at before John even saw it. 

“Don't be ridiculous. Hasn't worked before, won't now.”

John giggled and Sherlock started to, too. Mycroft left and John earnestly hoped he pulled Greg with him. He was rather too busy to notice.


End file.
